The Other Side
by charred twilight
Summary: “Everyone says Harry Potter had a difficult childhood. I say ignorance is preferable to blind indifference.” COMPLETED
1. Narcissa

**DISCLAIMER: **All characters and settings found in my stories are the property of J.K. Rowling.

**The Other Side**

**_Chapter 1: Narcissa_**

I was raised by a nanny, my father was away too much for him to take notice of a child and my mother wanted nothing to do with me; she had fulfilled her marital obligations and ended up with a sniveling, crying being she couldn't detest more. People always thought it was my father that was cold and heartless, but I think my mother had him beat. Their circumstances, however, are very different.

I know, for instance, that my mother used to be a very loving, caring person. There had been a time when she laughed and her blue eyes sparkled with mirth. It was only after she met my father that she became the woman I know. For you see, she had loved another. A poor man—a Muggle—a man that could only offer her love and protection, not the riches and opulence her family reasoned she deserved. My father, unbeknownst to my mother at the time, killed him on orders from the Dark Lord.

Heartbroken, my mother married per her family's wishes and gained a lifetime of cold, impersonal wealth earned by the devil's deeds. When she learned of the way her former lover died, she vowed revenge and closed off her heart. Love has never since graced the walls of our home. She has bedded many a man besides my father, unknown to him and his arrogance, trying to reclaim what she lost the day he put a ring on her finger. I once asked her, due to my young age and naïveté, why she couldn't love my father. She told me that not even the strongest person could help whom they loved.

Her revenge is her sweetest indulgence. She is a spy. For every person my father kills, for every Muggle he strikes down out of hate, she saves two. More importantly, she does it right under his nose. His dedication to the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself keeps him away for extended periods of time, giving my mother free reign of the finances. She sends Muggles abroad, away from England and away from the war under the pretense of "business." She sends rolls upon rolls of parchment to Professor Dumbledore, telling him when and where her husband has been and will be in the future. It wasn't until recently I realized my mother helped shape him, helped further his fame and guarantee his name made headlines—she made him a figure of hope—much to my father's dismay.

My father has always underestimated the power of women. He almost died at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange when my mother slept with Rudolphus. That was the only man he ever found out about, and my mother was punished severely. I used to sit in my room and listen to him beat her as a child, hear him rationalize he was only "putting her in her place," but now I know better. He is a man ruled by fear and consumed by the idea of control. He fears what he cannot control. He fears my mother. He knows she is smarter, that she only settled for him out of some misplaced family identity and that because most of her family is now dead due to the war, she holds the power to destroy our "family." My mother has little to lose at this point; she is not interested in her fame or riches, she doesn't care about me, her only son who was conceived and born from hate. I know that it is her pride alone that keeps her from going public with the truth and giving Dumbledore that final piece of information with which to end the war—that which will make Harry Potter a hero.

I have already said that my mother is intelligent; she graduated near the top of her class at Durmstrang. What's more, however, is that she knows the power her mind possesses and she does not hesitate to use it. It is not my father's bribes that keep the Minister in his place; it is what my mother learns from Fudge during their trysts that could destroy a very powerful man and his counterparts. Men are weak when it comes to the opposite sex—it is truly women who run the world despite outward appearances and the things we tell ourselves in the mirror. I have learned that behind every powerful man there is a woman controlling him, reining him in or making him more irrational as the situation warrants. Even Voldemort has his lovers; I can name them all. My mother once told me that a man who rejects a woman "is either very smart or very stupid." I asked her, once, how to tell and she just gave me that impassive stare she has perfected over the years, leading me to the realization that I, as a man, may never know.

I watch her carry on with her everyday life, pretending she knows nothing about my father's deeds save what she reads in the papers. She congratulates him on successful raids to keep up appearances—he has no clue of what she really is. However, I know she is disappointed in me, disappointed in my choices and my "decision" to follow in Lucius' footsteps. Little does she know she is not the only spy in the house. My mission is to counteract my mother, on orders from Voldemort. I feigned surprise that day—I may not be as smart as Hermione Granger, but I knew it was not a good move to let the Dark Lord know I was aware of my mother's treachery; better for him to think me a fool than a threat.

The rain outside has begun to lash against the windowpanes; a few drops have managed to seep through a tiny crack in the frame. I quickly repair it with a wave of my wand, the irony of an invasion not lost upon me. In five days I am supposed to join my father in the fight against Voldemort. In five decisive days, I am supposed to join the side of evil and kill my mother.

**End of Chapter 1**


	2. Lucius

**DISCLAIMER:** All characters and settings found in my stories are the property of J.K. Rowling.

**The Other Side**

**_Chapter 2: Lucius_**

Everyone says Harry Potter had a difficult childhood. I say ignorance is preferable to blind indifference. When I was little my father was invincible, perfect in every way, and I couldn't wait to become him, to live his life full of adventure and conquest. It wasn't until later that I learned the truth. I was impressionable; I suppose every child is, but myself more so. Even after realizing the truth, after watching him in his perverse pleasures I still loved him; he was my father.

It was not until later that I understood the reality and depth the consequences of his actions harbored. It was not until I saw the slow annihilation of the lives around me did I come to see my father was not the person I believed him to be.

It was not good stead and hard work that brought my family money, it was cruelty and indifference; idle hands of bored, passionate young men looking for a cause in which to believe. They paid no mind to the goodness or wickedness of the cause, only pausing for concern about how much they would earn from their sins.

So my forefather's built the mansion that bears their and my name today: a ruthless sterile mansion that resembles a museum, not a home. It is the place in which I have slept, ate, and played for seventeen years, yet I will never call it home. It is my father's house, passed down through generations of ruthless, brutal men; it is a house that I will one day refuse to own—not because it bears the name Malfoy, but because of the coldness and impersonal disposition that lurks within the walls, destroying a person's mind and reaching out to bring others into its grasp.

I have not told my father this for fear of his reprisal, much as I have failed to divulge that it never really has been in my interest to join the Death Eaters; what kind of man would choose to sacrifice himself for a Lord who could kill him any day? I know I'm selfish, I learned it at a young age, and that is why I am so unwilling to give my life to another who could easily take it away. The whole idea is utterly ridiculous.

The things I dreamed of as a child—being an Auror or even a dragon tamer—they don't exist any more. I had no idea that on the day I came into this world I had already been predestined to carry my father's sins, to take the weight of his burdens upon my shoulders and carry them proudly. I was allowed to live in my blissful ignorance for ten years. It was then my father informed me of what my future was to hold if I wished to remain his son; I was to uphold the family honor or be cast aside like a useless beggar child. Needless to say I stayed. I still believed at ten my father could be redeemed from his sins and that I would be the one to show him the way—but never did I tell him of my mother's actions.

I received the mark last year; my mother put on quite a show, letting nothing of her true feelings pervade the otherwise jubilant event. However, my father failed to notice the looks of disdain she shot at me for months afterward, how she failed to look me in the eyes and, instead, allowed her penetrating gaze to stare fixedly at my right forearm. At times it seemed she could see through the fabric, consciously making the mark burn without any assistance from the Dark Lord. It is her guilt that penetrates my soul, keeping me awake at night and forcing me to relive my actions in my dreams. Yet, it is upon my father's incessant demands I live my life, occasionally stopping to ponder of that which I am steadfastly becoming.

Two days ago my mother watched as I grasped my forearm in pain. She stared unblinkingly as I Apparated to join my father's side. I cannot tell her of the path I have chosen to follow, she would not understand. The choices for my parents are distinctly clear and parallel; never the two shall meet in purpose. I, however, am not so lucky. I am resigned to be the tangent consecutively intersecting both the plans of my mother and father, to be the thorn in each of their sides.

Voldemort believes I have followed in my father's footsteps, that I have become what I was bred to be. Dumbledore believes I am a reformed sinner. They're both wrong. I only kill to keep from being killed and I only help the order to get back at my father and the destruction he has caused in my life as well as the lives of others. My motivations are purely selfish and I have not taken a side. I am stuck in limbo as the only person in this war without a definitive purpose.

The rain outside continues to lash against the windowpanes, but my repair holds—no more water graces the ledge. In five days I am supposed to join my mother in the fight against Voldemort and choose a side. In five decisive days, I am supposed to join the side of good and kill my father.

**End of Chapter 2**

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews—I love hearing what everyone thinks! Constructive criticism welcome!


	3. Draco

**DISCLAIMER:** All characters and settings found in my stories are the property of J.K. Rowling.  
  
**A/N:** I had originally planned to end the story after the first chapter due to the fact that this was a one shot thing and I had never planned to continue it past Narcissa. However, as you can see, this story insisted to be written! I hope you enjoy how I decided to end it—trust me, it wasn't easy! Also, the story is rated G, but just as a warning this chapter has a bad word in it.  
  
**The Other Side  
_Chapter 3: Draco_**  
  
I stare at the envelope on the table, as if it will jump out at me in accusation, attaching itself to my face and stifling my cries while I struggle to breathe. Inside lies my future. It suddenly becomes disturbing when one is forced to place a value on one's own life, but that is what I have done. The papers inside that envelope grant me safe passage out of the country after the war begins. They offer me a chance at a new life in a new country—one of my choosing, no less—a chance I am still unsure about taking. For as much as I hate my parents, I hate myself for letting them dictate who I've become. There are many who would have turned the tides of fate which I have so easily let sweep me away.  
  
I stopped fighting. I don't remember the day it happened, or even the year, but I know that I gave in. Perhaps that is why I was sorted into Slytherin; it was never my malice or greed that placed me in that house. The rest of the school has such traits as those, but I did not argue with my father when he said I must join Voldemort's side. Nor did I argue with my mother when she looked down on me, filled with spite and loathing. I am adrift in a sea of indifference. I have never truly lived. At this point, I am even unsure of what to fight for except my own existence and the possibility of rectifying the wrongs I have perpetrated.  
  
Even that, however, doesn't seem enough anymore. As I stare out the window I can't help but notice the panes, intersecting each other, divided, and yet, somehow, combining for a single purpose much like the world outside them. For even though there are two distinct sides in this war, those fighting are only serving a bigger cause—they are merely serving to the whims of fate and one group without the other would surely bring about ultimate destruction. The balance must be maintained. I have yet to figure out where my place lies. Is it with my mother and those Muggle-loving fools? Or do I take up arms with my father and bleed for an evil cause that offers no solace? My choices are not easy.  
  
Few know of the existence of the envelope on my desk; few have the means with which to obtain such a thing. Those who are aware, however, are those who matter most to me in the world. My father knows of my treachery, but is unable to bring himself to kill me. My mother, I know, would rather see me flee and be deigned a coward than stay and fight for my father and his minions. The writing mocks me for it is the scrawl of a beautiful woman. How I know she is beautiful does not matter, but the writing itself curves in all the right places, looks effortless against the paper. I hate the attention to detail I've shown of late. It reminds me of the stories I read as a child where right before the tragic hero destroys evil for good, time slows to a standstill and he notices the oddest things such as the sound of his footsteps, the cawing of a bird, or the unimportant insect creeping across the rubber of his boot.  
  
It is these signs that make me question the contents of the envelope. Do I wish to be remembered as the man who hid behind his father's robes in terror? Do I wish to stand and fight beside him and buck the trend I have laid for myself these past few years? For I know I will not come back if I should choose to fight. I have made too many enemies to survive even a single battle. They will hear my voice, remember all the taunts and miserable circumstances into which I put them, then they will have no choice but to seek me out and deliver the final blow which will end my life. My choice is no longer whom to fight for, but whether to fight. Those fighting alongside my mother will not accept me—the scars I inflicted run too deep for them to ever forgive me. I let out a soft snort when I realize I have no one to blame but myself for the way my life has turned out.  
  
Perhaps it was my father who aligned me with the Dark Lord, but I did not fight him. And maybe my mother never intended to love me, but I chose to become the bitter man I am today. There is no one left to blame as I reach for the book of matches on my desk. I slowly pick away the green wax seal on the envelope and retrieve the papers inside. By striking a match I make my decision and lift the papers, touching one to the other.  
  
I watch the parchment curl and twist between my fingers, turning deathly black and falling to ashes upon the floor. A witch or wizard could never produce the same results from a wand—only the science of Muggles could create such an outstandingly beautiful thing—just one irony of many to people such as myself who take them for granted and look down upon their simple ways. The charred remains crunch when I close my fist and rain down like dirty snow when I rake them from my hand. It is a shame most wizards do not have the capacity to appreciate the fine intricacies of real fire; magical fires lack a soul, they are merely purposeful. To create a soulless entity so devoid of the life it had intentionally been created to hold is a damning thing. I find it adequately parallels my life.  
  
As I stand and pick up my wand, I realize there is nothing left for me in this world and my joining my father will only reassure what I have led others to believe about myself. I will not die for him or the Dark Lord, though they may perceive it as such. I will be dying for myself. I can only hope my next life turns out better than this one. The scar on my arm burns before glowing a furious red and I extinguish the dripping candle by which I have been musing. A trip down the stairs leads me to the only woman I have ever loved and I apologize to my mother one last time before Disapparating to my father's side.

**End of The Other Side**

"It matters not how straight the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll,  
I am the master of my fate,  
I am the captain of my soul."  
  
"Invictus," by William E. Henley


End file.
